Reunited: Marriage In A Million. Liz Fielding

them with soft cowl necks, classic silk shirts, trousers—she always wore skirts on air—and neat ankle boots.

      More than once, as she browsed through the racks, she saw someone take a second glance, but her new haircut and George’s brilliant streaky blend of light brown through to sun-kissed blonde—his very inventive interpretation of cheerful mouse—fooled them. She couldn’t possibly be who they thought she was.

      There was an exhilarating freedom in this moment of anonymity and when she spotted a photo booth she piled in with her packages, grinning into the camera as she posed for a picture so that she could share the joke with Claire and Simone.

      Then she passed an interior design shop.

      She wasn’t the only one that needed a make-over and if time was going to be hanging heavy on her hands she might as well make a start on the flat.

      When she was done there, she was so laden with the in-house designer’s print outs, swatches, carpet squares and colour charts that she had to call it a day and take another taxi. At which point she wondered about buying herself a car.

      One of her very early ‘make a fool of Belle’ projects for the television had been a driving course. Not that much of a fool, actually, since she’d taken to it like a duck to water and ended up doing an off-road course, a circuit in a grand prix car and driving a double-decker bus through a skid test. And earned herself another contract.

      She’d bought a little car then, but once she’d married Ivo there had always been a chauffeur in town and there had been no point in keeping it.

      The taxi driver was a mine of information on the subject and by the time he delivered her to her door he’d made a call arranging for her to test drive a zippy little BMW convertible the following afternoon.

      

      ‘You did what?’

      She hadn’t long been home from the studio on Monday afternoon when the doorbell rang.

      Her first thought was that it was the press who, following up her appearance on the television that morning, would be clamouring for the story behind her ‘new look’. Since neither her agent nor her PR consultant could answer their questions—she hadn’t talked to either of them yet—the gossip columnists would have called the house, which meant they would now have a much bigger story.

      That she was no longer living with Ivo. That the ‘perfect’ marriage was over.

      Of course it could be her agent—he kept a television on in his office so that he could keep an eye on his clients—demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, messing with success. Ruining the image he’d gone to so much trouble and expense—he always took expenditure personally, even when it was her money he was spending—to build. Anxious to arrange interviews, a photo session so that he could ‘sell’ her new look. Wanting to know what spin the PR guys should put on the fact that she’d moved out of the family home, since, like the press, he’d go there first.

      A new romance for her? Positive, upbeat, radiant…

      A cheating husband? Sympathetic, brave…

      A marriage that had collapsed under the strain of the pressure of their careers? Very sad. Still good friends…

      She’d seen it all a hundred times.

      The light on the answering machine had been flashing when she’d got home. She had ignored it, just as she now ignored the doorbell.

      Instead, she was glued to her laptop, anxiously checking through the messages to see if there was anything from the Adoption Register.

      Nothing. Instead she clicked on the site she’d bookmarked, the one with personal adoption stories.

      A second longer peal on the bell warned her that whoever was at the front door wasn’t about to go away and, knowing that she would have to face the music sooner rather than later, she picked up the entry phone.

      ‘Yes?’ she said, her voice neutral.

      ‘Belle…’

      She caught her breath, almost doubling up with shock at the sound of Ivo’s voice…

      No…

      It was the middle of the afternoon. He should be in his office, all of London at his feet, both figuratively and metaphorically. He didn’t do ‘personal’, not in office hours. Not ever…

      She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, just buzzed him up, taking the time it took for him to walk up to her flat—an old converted town house, there were no lifts—to recover. Taking those few moments to put herself back together before she opened the door.